Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 165, Page 164: Are you also going to abandon medicine for literature?
Lionel looked at the excited young medical student in front of him, his mind a jumble of memories of the father of detective novels and the current naivety of the student.

However, having seen many famous people in this life, he was able to suppress his emotions as much as possible and respond in a calm tone: "Mr. Doyle, it's a pleasure to meet you."

I never expected to run into a reader in a London hospital. Arthur, please have a seat!

Conan Doyle pulled over a chair from the bedside, sat down carefully, his voice still trembling: "Oh, Mr. Sorel, this is nothing short of a miracle for me!"

I'm not just a reader, I'm your admirer!

Lionel: "..." Did you British people know this much in the 19th century?

Conan Doyle, seemingly oblivious to Lionel's mood, continued rambling on: "Your *The Old Guard* captures the fate of an individual within the torrent of history..."

And then there's "The Curious Case of Benjamin Bouton," the boy who "grows backwards," which also fascinates me!
What I love most are novels with a strong sense of history, yet not overly cumbersome—

Before you, Sir Walter Scott was my idol! I truly hope that I can become a historical novelist someday!

Lionel nodded slightly: "Your French is good? There are no English translations of 'The Old Guard' and 'The Curious Cases of Benjamin Buton' yet."

Conan Doyle blushed: "If it's just reading, it's not a big problem—but it's a bit difficult to explain."

Lionel laughed: "History is indeed fascinating; it provides endless material and profound perspectives for writing."

However, it seems you have chosen another equally respectable path.

Medicine is a noble profession; those who save lives and heal the wounded are angels on earth!

When medicine was mentioned, Conan Doyle's excitement subsided slightly, and he looked troubled: "Yes, sir, medicine... it certainly has its value."

Professor Bell is the best example. However, in the UK, the prospects for becoming a doctor... frankly, aren't so bright, especially in the early stages...

Compared to creating a near-realistic world with a pen, it feels... somewhat limited.

British doctors are known for their low income and high expenses, which is incomparable to most of their European counterparts.

The main reason is that the UK has never had a unified professional system for doctors; "physicians," "surgeons," "pharmacists," and "internists" all have the right to provide medical care.

A university degree was not a necessary requirement, and many people could practice medicine through apprenticeships—in addition, the widespread availability of medical education in 19th-century Britain led to a direct oversupply.

In the Victorian era, becoming a "gentleman" was more important than making money.

Most doctors struggle in the lower and middle classes, yet still strive to maintain a respectable image—renting dedicated offices, employing servants, and wearing bespoke suits.

Therefore, many doctors appear respectable on the surface, but in reality, they are struggling to make ends meet.

Lionel understood this hesitation, and could only say tactfully, "Mr. Doyle, knowledge and skills will never let you down."

Medical training will give you the ability to observe, think logically, and understand human nature—all invaluable assets, regardless of whether you make a living from them in the future.

Finish your studies first; the possibilities for the future are far greater than what you see now.

Who can say that someone with rigorous scientific training cannot write a more rigorous and profound story?

Conan Doyle shook his head dismissively: "Muscles, blood vessels, bones... what stories could there be?"

Are we supposed to piece together a 'Frankenstein' like Mary Shelley did?
Or should we do something like Edgar Allan Poe or Emil Gabolia, like writing a 'crime novel'?
Good heavens, I wouldn't write a novel like this even if I opened a small clinic in the countryside!

Lionel: "..."

He decided to change the subject: "Speaking of observation skills—your teacher, Dr. Joseph Bell, his performance just now was simply astonishing."

Is he usually like this?

At the mention of Dr. Bell, Conan Doyle's eyes lit up again: "Genius! Mr. Sorel, Professor Bell is absolutely a genius!"

His ability to observe details and deduce the whole picture from them was simply like magic!
But this was not witchcraft; it was based on his extensive knowledge and rigorous logic.

He leaned forward, eager to share: "He can often accurately deduce a patient's occupation, lifestyle, and even where they have recently been simply by observing their behavior, accent, wear and tear on their clothes, or even the dirt under their fingernails."

On one occasion, he only glanced at a distinctive scar on the hand of a taciturn patient and a particular color of clay on his boots, and concluded that the patient was a left-handed potter from a specific area of ​​Fife, and he was absolutely right!

"And another time..." Conan Doyle recounted several anecdotes about Dr. Bell, especially how he helped the police solve the "Chantelle Murder Case" in 1878.

The astute doctor immediately realized that Mrs. Chantelle did not die from accidental gas poisoning, but from being fed an excessive amount of opium.

He simply picked up the pillowcase stained with Mrs. Chantre's vomit and smelled it, which gave Mr. Chantre away.

Conan Doyle concluded with great admiration: "...So, for us, attending Professor Bell's class is like watching a wonderful performance!"

Lionel gave a cryptic smile: "If I need to verify some medical details for some of my future works, could you be my consultant?"

Conan Doyle was overjoyed: "It is my honor, Mr. Sorel! To be your assistant in writing your novel is a dream come true!"

Lionel smiled and nodded: "Actually, I'm only two years older than you. You can call me Lionel, or Leon, it's fine too!"
"Mr. Sorel, you're too kind! We're friends, aren't we?"

Conan Doyle nodded his head like a chicken pecking at rice: "Yes, Leon!"

At this moment, the door to the ward was pushed open.

An older woman with a serious expression walked in.

She was also wearing a nurse's uniform, but the style was simpler and more dignified, and her hair was neatly pulled back inside her cap.

Conan Doyle seemed startled and immediately stood up from his chair, looking somewhat uneasy: "Nan...Ms. Nightingale!"

Nightingale’s gaze first fell gently on Lionel, then turned to Conan Doyle: “Mr. Doyle, if I remember correctly, you should be in the surgical ward assisting with dressing changes at this time.”

Does Professor Bell know you're here?

Conan Doyle blushed instantly and stammered, "I...I just wanted to visit Mr. Sorel..."

Nightingale's tone softened: "I understand how you feel. But for Mr. Sorel at this moment, rest is the best treatment."

Now, please return to your posts.

“Yes, yes, Ms. Nightingale. I’m so sorry.” Conan Doyle practically jogged out of the ward.

Nightingale then walked to Lionel's bedside and checked the signboard above his bed: "Mr. Sorel, I am Florence Nightingale."

Mr. Harold Thompson is a friend of mine, and he specifically asked me to look after you.

How are you feeling now? Is there anything else that's bothering you?

Her voice was deep and clear, carrying a reassuring power.

Lionel nodded: "Thank you very much, Ms. Nightingale, and please also thank Mr. Thompson on my behalf."

I feel much better than yesterday, but I still feel weak all over and my head is a little dizzy.

Nightingale examined his complexion and pupils: "This is a normal recovery process. Your high fever has just subsided, and your body needs time to repair itself."

The air in London can be quite a challenge for newcomers, especially when they are physically exhausted.

Most importantly—rest. Thoughts and conversations drain your energy; put them aside for a while.

Lionel obediently replied, "I understand, thank you for reminding me, Ms. Nightingale."

Nightingale nodded slightly: "If you need anything, you can have the nurse tell me at any time."

They were all my students; I spent almost all my time at the nursing school at St. Thomas' Hospital.

He then gave the nurse a few more instructions before quietly leaving the ward.

If he had to name the most respected "big shot" he'd met recently, it would undoubtedly be this woman who pioneered modern nursing.

He then drank a glass of warm water and fell into a deep sleep.

While Lionel enjoyed a peaceful rest in his hospital room, Britain and France were waging a war without gunfire because of him.

(End of this chapter)